In the eighth week Shane and Austin told Dr. Bremer that Shane was going to compete in three weeks. Dr. Bremer exclaimed Shane would do no such thing—no skating till he was completely mended. But he was, Shane insisted. Impossible, the doctor declared. Austin told Bremer to test the articulation of Shane’s elbow. Bremer was surprised. He ordered X-rays. The X-rays corroborated what Shane claimed—he was one hundred percent fine. Dr. Bremer announced he didn’t believe in miracles, that the break couldn’t have been as substantial as he’d assumed, that perhaps his previous diagnosis was exaggerated. Austin suggested Bremer look at the earlier X-rays. Later that day Dr. Bremer pronounced Shane ready to skate again. That’s what Austin had done for him. And the same thing with a smaller break two years ago. Austin had that gift. And Austin controlled Shane with the gift, Shane knew this. So Shane’s worry deepened.
What was Austin saying? The Mounties? Why did he keep going on about the Mounties? “Austin. It’s not the Mounties I’m worried about. It’s the detectives.”
“I don’t think you need to worry.” His voice, never harsh, softened as he said, “We’ve got another few minutes. Push the seat back. Lean back.”
Shane did. Now he’ll say, Close your eyes . . .
“Close your eyes. Good. Let your shoulders relax. Good. Let your jaw relax. Good. Now take a deep breath. A deeper breath. Breathe in so deeply you can feel the air going right down to your stomach . . .”
Shane knew it all, the flow of the words, the way his body responded, most of the time completely, but always with increasing ease. It felt good to relax his responsibility and allow his body to ease away the sharp edges, the painful corners, the jagging heat. Austin had taught him how to do this. And when Austin wasn’t around Shane could bring these states onto himself. Except he’d not done so in the last two weeks, not since he’d come home after Derek’s beating. Why not? Part of him said he’d been too distracted. But more that—it was as if it’d be, somehow, something sacrilegious about using Austin’s method for changing his body’s state of being. Except when, like now, Austin spoke in that gentle fashion, it seemed almost okay.
Austin’s voice came almost as a whisper: “. . . and you will, Shane, you will. With your discipline, you can, you will. You’ll see, it’ll be easy, you’ll see . . .”
Would he? Maybe. He should know. He didn’t know and it scared him. Maybe he had to. If he didn’t? That scared him more. And he didn’t even know if he had any reason to be scared. Which made it all worse.
Shane felt the ferry slowing. They’d be closing in on the Campbell River dock.
FIVE
T. Shorty Barlow stood on the porch of his 1950s mill-worker’s house and surveyed the garden. It occupied most of his half-acre on a Campbell River hillside facing southeast, with a view of the Cape Mudge reserve end of Quadra Island across the water. And how were land claims going, how was Zeke managing the politicos?
The broad beans were nearly over. Tomatoes needed re-staking. Green beans looked okay, so did the lettuces and arugula. Might be a good crop of apples this year, but he needed to thin. He would come home early.
He cast a glance at the espaliered peach. Little tiny green balls, how did they grow such a big hard stone in so few months? The peach fruit around the stone didn’t amaze him, the seeds of raspberries, strawberries, even apples weren’t as startling as peach stones.
He set his empty coffee cup on the railing and clumped down the stairs, opened the deer-proof gate and surveyed the garden from there. The smell of it all made his heart smile—the moist earth warming, the radicchio and lettuce unfurling, the various squash extending tendrils. Hell, he could practically see it happening.
Loathsome weeds sprouted every day, shoots flourishing in the loose soil as if they didn’t care. He squatted and pulled, the sun already hot on his neck. Slugs of course, thanks to the rain. The little ones, the most destructive, left brown holes in the lettuce. Shorty examined each leaf in the row and picked the white buggers off. These guys had emigrated from England or somewhere, not like the indigenous banana slugs that knew to stay in the bush and eat there. Shorty squished the little bastards between his fingers; he hated the slimy feel, then wiped the slime off in the dirt. The dirt clung to his fingers. “I know,” he said to Perky, who’d stalked up. “I should have put gloves on. Why in bloody hell can’t you look after the slugs?”
Perky rubbed against his side, said, “Miaow,” and rolled over on the warming soil between the vegetables, inviting Shorty to rub his belly.
“Bloody hell,” said Shorty. “I’m busy.”
“Miaow.” Perky was black with a white shirt-front.
“Fuck off.” But Shorty knew this routine could go on for a while.
Perky licked his paw.
Shorty gave in and, with the back of his hand, rubbed his stomach. Perky arched, and purred. “Okay, cat, you look after the veg, I have to get to the rink.” He stood, locking his creaking knee. On the porch he scooped up the coffee cup between his palms. No way not to get dirt on the door handle, damn. Cup on kitchen counter, on to the bathroom. He scrubbed his hands, took a cloth from under the sink, wet it, went back and cleaned the door handle. Perky still lay between the lettuce and beans, rubbing his back in the soil. Cats should weed, or at least learn to make the bed. A good life. Long as you’re not a cat in a research lab.
His other cat, Tabitha, a tortoise shell, looked up from the sofa, her usual place. She rarely went outside. Maybe fifteen minutes at dusk.
“You could do the dishes,” Shorty told her.
She rolled over and purred.
He rinsed the cloth, came back and punched the answering machine replay button. “Hi, Shorty, it’s Shane. Austin’s driving me over. See you at the rink.”
The ice was good. He’d had the icing team check it yesterday, right temperature for figure skating, slightly warmer than for hockey. Not many players practicing now, July. Just Shane on the small rink—and that little girl, Emily, only eight, so keen. Sometimes Shane gave her pointers. But he, T. Shorty Barlow the Great, was the Ice Meister of Campbell River.
Shorty got into his Toyota pickup, shoved in the key, backed out of his driveway. That Shane, close to Olympic material. He’d read a book, Outliers, which stressed the route to success was made up of luck and work. Being born in the right time and place, then ten thousand hours of practice. And have someone like Shorty around: keep the ice the right thickness and temperature, pick Shane up at the ferry when he didn’t have a ride, be nice to Austin when he was around, he was bloody paying for that super coach in Vancouver. Ten thousand hours of practice. Hell of a number, but it was spread over years. Shane did it, just like Yo Yo Ma probably had with his cello. Outliers talked about hockey players, how most top players had been born in the first few months of the year. Like race horses the cut-off date was January 1, so children born early in the year had a physical advantage. They got picked for rep teams, had more practice time, and so on. Shorty knew Derek’s birthday was early spring because one year his friends had surprised him with a cake at the rink. Didn’t know when Shane’s was. Maybe it wasn’t so important in figure skating.
Shane. His attitude had changed. His skating was very good, but increasingly mechanical. Last year’s sparkle had faded. Too much pressure now in Seniors?
T. Shorty Barlow the Great had watched Shane for thirteen years. At four and five he’d wobbled around the rink after his older brother, as Timmy had later behind both of them. The little kids, their desire, innocence, will to learn, always brought a lump to Shorty’s throat. “Way to go, guys!” he’d yell, year after year, from a low bleacher seat close to his Zamboni garage.
Ten thousand hours of practice and every advantage. Shane had that, a loving family, not too much hassle for switching from hockey to figure skating, and Shorty to keep the ice in perfect condition. Yeah, and Austin to pay the bills. Shorty therefore should be in cahoots with Austin, right? Yeah, right.
• • •
Noe
l, not having Cindy’s last name nor knowing where and if she worked, drove first to the hospital. Maybe she’d be back with Derek. But in Derek’s room, no visitors. Derek lay as still and silent as yesterday. At the nurses’ station he asked for Linda, she might have a sense of Cindy’s whereabouts. But Linda was in the OR today, wouldn’t be available for hours. So back to the car, Alana waiting, Noel and Kyra disagreeing whether Cindy had told them to turn right or left after leaving the parking lot. “Left, I think,” Noel said, “because we got back on that main road—Dogwood, right?” He turned left, Kyra insisting he’d gone wrong. After only two wrong turns he managed to wind his way to Cindy’s home. His mind kept coming back to the list of dates and the $3000 notations. They arrived at Cindy’s home as she was opening the door to a tan Tercel. Kyra and Noel got out of the Honda. Alana stayed: more than two interviewers could intimidate the subject. Alana had sulked, then acceded.
Kyra waved. “Hello, Cindy!”
Cindy, tight jeans and a red T-shirt, whirled. “Oh. Hello.”
“We’d like to talk to you about Derek.”
“I’m just on my way to sit with him.”
“We’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Well, okay.” She closed the car door and leaned against it.
Noel propped his elbow on the car roof. Kyra faced them both. Not maximal interrogation circumstances, Noel thought. “How long have you known Derek?”
“Oh, five months?”
“And you’ve been dating since then?”
“Oh no, only since maybe March?”
“You know him pretty well, then?”
She looked down. “We were getting to know each other more.”
“He’s a good guy, is he?”
She gave Kyra a thin smile. “A great guy.” Her eyes were welling.
“Did you get to know his friends?”
“Some.” She pulled a tissue from a pocket.
“Who was he close to?”
“Well, couple of guys over on Quadra. Here at the college, Mike Campbell, it was Mike who introduced Derek and me.” She giggled.
“Is that funny?”
“Well, no. Before I started dating Derek, I was going with Mike.”
“I see. Was that hard on Mike, your leaving him for Derek?”
“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t going to be with Mike much longer anyway.”
“Did Mike know that?”
“Yeah. Well, sorta.” Cindy wiped her nose. “Why do you want to know this?”
“Anything we can learn about Derek and his friends might help us. You want us to find who beat him, don’t you?”
“Mainly I want him to be okay again.”
“And when he’s okay, you don’t want anything else to happen to him, right?”
She sighed, close to a sob in her outbreath. “No. Please no.” She looked Kyra in the eye. “Ask me.”
“Was Mike angry when you started dating Derek?”
“No. Course not.” She stared at the table again. “Why should he be?”
Noel said, “You’re a very attractive young woman. Any guy could be upset if you shifted your affection.”
“Are you saying Mike could’ve done this to Derek? He’s not even in town.”
“We’re just asking questions, Cindy.”
“No. There’s no way Mike would—he’s a gentle guy. No.”
“Tell us about his other friends.”
“Gaston Robitaille and Joe Daimley. They drank a lot of beer together. Too much, I thought. Gast specially, he got real loud after a few.”
“Is that what they mostly did together?”
“Beer, and they played hockey. And sometimes we double-dated, Derek and me, and Gaston and Kelly. Or Joe and whoever he was with and— Shit.”
“What?”
She put her hands to her mouth. “Won’t be doing that for a while.”
Noel made the connection. The list of numbers— “Did Gast and Joe do drugs with Derek?”
“What?”
“We think they were. More than just doing.”
“What d’you mean, more?”
“Dealing?”
“Derek? No way.”
“We’ve learned a few things, Cindy.”
“Come on. Not Derek.”
“If you know something about drugs, now’s the time to tell us. To help Derek.”
“I do want to help Derek. But how can this help?”
“Tell us what it is, and if it helps, then you’ve helped.”
“It’s not—oh, I don’t know.” She wiped her nose again.
Kyra smiled encouragingly. Noel looked stern. Cindy wouldn’t meet their eyes. She rolled her shoulders. She rubbed her right hand with her left.
Kyra leaned toward her. “What?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”
“We’re not the police, Cindy. If it’s not important we’ll forget it. I promise.”
Cindy took a deep breath. “Derek did it because he really cares for Shane. He did it for Shane.” She paused. “He could get some good weed. Gast and Joe, they found the guys to sell it to. They were supposed to meet up that night.”
Out of the corner of her eye Kyra noted Alana, leaning out the window of the Honda, listening intently.
“The three of them were going to meet these buyers. The meet was up at the end of Evergreen Road. Where he was found.” Tears welled again. “Then Derek was coming over here. We were going to be together.” She sniffed hard and wiped her face with the decomposing tissue. “He never came here, he was lying up there. I waited an hour then went looking for Gast and Joe. I found them at the Riptide, they were pissed. I got Joe outside and he told me they’d done the deal and they’d left Derek up there. He was fine when they left him.” She sniffed, and wiped her nose.
Kyra found a pack of tissues in her purse and handed one to Cindy.
Cindy took it, wiped her cheeks and eyes. “Thank you.” She stared at the hood of the car. “Except then—I drove to Evergreen but I never got that far, I saw cop cars, their lights flashing like crazy, and I just turned around, if he was okay he’d be fine and if he wasn’t—anyway, I came home and took some sleeping pills and the next morning Linda told me.”
“You said Derek was doing this deal for Shane. What do you mean?”
“There’s a chance that the guy who’s been supporting Shane’s going to stop.”
Noel said, “Austin Osborne?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“The stock market’s tanking and Osborne lost money and maybe couldn’t afford to keep on supporting Shane.”
“Maybe?”
“They had to wait and see what happened to Osborne’s investments. But Derek didn’t want to take the chance. So he did what he figured he had to.”
Kyra said, “Where’d he get the weed?”
“I don’t know.”
Kyra glanced at Noel, back to Cindy. “Thanks for telling us.”
Noel straightened up. “Did you inform the police?”
Cindy blinked hard. “No.”
“Because?”
“Because I didn’t want to get Derek into trouble!” Now nearly shouting.
“He’s already in trouble.”
Kyra touched Cindy’s shoulder. “We’ll do all we can for Derek.”
Noel said, “Is there anything else you could tell us?”
Whispering: “I’ve told you everything.”
“It may help Derek. If there’s anything else you think of, please phone us.” He handed her a card.
“What’re you going to do now?”
“Continue the investigation.”
“Will you talk to Gast and Joe?”
“Probably.”
Cindy grabbed the door handle. “Please don’t tell them I said all this stuff.”
He glanced at Kyra, who nodded. “We won’t tell them.”
She moved toward the house. Turned, looked from Kyra to Noel, went inside.
“Little things. Tim calling those two dopeheads. Derek’s oldest best friend Jim growing marijuana—”
“Which he said he’d never deal, he’d lose that license—”
“But which he might deal if the close friend was desperate. But mostly it was the schedule Alana found. First date on the list was June 15, the day Derek was beaten. Is three thousand dollars a good price for a kilo of marijuana?”
“Sounds cheap to me.”
“And six more kilos to go. With medical marijuana Jim would make sure he always had a fresh supply ready to harvest. What’s a kilo when you’re getting fifteen or twenty kilos every few weeks? Does Jim’s father know exactly how much is maturing?”
“We don’t know. We don’t even know if Derek got the stuff from Jim.”
“I’d bet on it.” He walked back to the Honda. “We should revisit Jim.”
Kyra said, “Right now, back to Gaston and Joe.”
“I’d guess Derek’s partners in crime weren’t the ones who beat him.”
They got into the car. Alana said, “Did you learn good stuff?”
“Didn’t you hear everything? Your curious head was obvious.” Kyra found herself liking Alana more and more.
“Derek took Cindy away from a Mike, and Derek did the deal for Shane because Osborne may have money problems.”
“Good ears.” Noel started the engine and pulled away. He inverted the arrival route, back on Dogwood. Again on to Evergreen, then Peterson, and there was Joe Daimley’s house. On the porch no chair was occupied.
Kyra said, “Alana, this time keep the windows closed and stay low in the seat. We may have to confront a couple of guys here.”
“You mean—you mean they might try to fight you?”
“We don’t know.”
Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island Page 12
